


36:  Fugitives

by light_source



Series: High Heat [36]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:23:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not that they’re not even close to .500.  It’s not the way Tim’s starting to look like the second coming of Sandy Koufax.  It’s the way Lincecum keeps saying <em>my girlfriend</em> that makes Zito want to punch a hole in the clubhouse wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	36:  Fugitives

**May 2008  
San Francisco**

The thin clubhouse carpet, laid padless over concrete, bounces the sound right across the room. Even though Zito’s in the far corner, he can still hear Lincecum’s laugh, low and scattered, cutting through the scrum of reporters that’s now two-deep. They’re astonished, delighted, because even though he's starting today, Tim isn’t just talking to them - he’s telling lame jokes and serenading them with a wheezy version of the song that’s become the anthem for his starts:

 _high on a hill  
_ _it calls to me_

From where Zito’s dressing, the whole thing sounds like a bunch of dogs who’ve gotten into the Milk-Bones, gobbling and snuffling.

//

On the days they start, pitchers aren’t supposed to talk. To anyone.

You leave the house before breakfast, because small talk and the sports page’ll shrink your dick. And get out the door before rush-hour because empty streets are restful to the mind.

When you pull into the players’ parking lot, you ditch the earbuds for a pair of those big-ass headphones that say _fuck off, I’m not listening to you._

At your locker, you jam your chair in so close in that there’s hardly even room for your feet.

Consider what’s in there. There’s that Phiten necklace Murph keeps fishing out of the trash and putting back on your shelf even though he knows you’re never gonna wear it. The Mother’s Day card you need a stamp for - ask Kell. A half-eaten bag of Skittles, blue and green and red ones spilling out messily like a kid’s idea of pills. The purple rabbit’s-foot Sally got you in eighth grade for winning State. A bottle of _Eternity for Men: Summer_ aftershave - does Calvin Klein know baseball?

What these things have in common is they all seemed like a good idea at the time.

Don’t go there. Just let your mind float. The wood-grain panel behind your game-day jersey is your lucky piece. Stare at it until you can only think of all the fake wood you’ve ever faced: the wall behind the autographed pictures at the Tip-Top; the four-by-eight panels of grooved masonite in your insurance agent’s office. Motel-room walls in Visalia and Nagodoches and Midland.

Take your mind away from this day, this place, this task.

//

Because he’s not starting today, Zito lets his mind wander, but really, it's so crazy these days it shouldn't be allowed out by itself.

_I’d like ‘things that seemed like a good idea at the time’ for 500, Alex._

Tim’s getting more spectacular with every start. So far he’s won pretty much everything in sight. If he’s 8 and 1 now, what’ll he be like by August?

Over the past two months, the headlines after Tim’s starts have gone from cautiously optimistic to gobsmacked: _Long Reliever Lincecum Scores the Winning Run. Lincecum Deals Scoreless Seven. Lincecum Continues to Amaze. Giants' 'Franchise' Masters Cardinals. Pitcher with the Midas Touch._

The new ballpark mantra on the days he starts is 'Happy Lincecum Day _.'_

Nobody’s really surprised at the Giants’ lame-ass offense. After all, Bonds is gone, and AT&T’s notorious for being a pitcher’s park.

But half the team’s already been on the DL, Noah just had surgery for some unpronounceable injury, and the dugout looks like a foxhole where a grenade went off. And some guys have already disappeared. The front office DFA’d Steve Kline at the beginning of the regular season, and even though he hates to admit it, Zito actuallly misses the mean-spirited fuck.

Zito himself is arguably the worst casualty among the walking wounded at 0 and 8. That’s already some kind of record, he figures. Just not the kind of record that gets you picked for the All-Star game.

But Zito’s philosophical about it, he is. He’s been around baseball long enough to know that most of what happens, good or bad, can’t be explained, fixed, or coaxed into being.

So why’d he wake up this morning wanting to smash things?

It’s not that they’re not even close to .500. It’s not that Zito’s - whatever. It’s not the way Tim’s starting to look like the second coming of Sandy Koufax.

It’s the way Lincecum keeps saying _my girlfriend_ that makes Zito want to punch a hole in the clubhouse wall.

//

**March 2008  
Phoenix**

She turns out to be small and blonde and named Megan like every third girl these days, and Tim met her during spring training. How it happened is the totally-Tim part: she backed into his car in the parking lot at Don & Charlie’s.

Wilson thinks she did it on purpose, and he could be right, because a lot of spring-training groupies are exactly that strategic and relentless.

But from what Zito’s heard, she’s for real, and that’s what’s got him worried.

In January, Tim’d made his first big-league purchase. He’d bought the car of his dreams, a silver Mercedes sedan, off Dave Roberts. All spring he’d been cornering anybody who’d listen to him, bragging about that car, inviting guys out to the parking lot to admire it. And talking shit about the fate of his F-150, which he’d junked for thirty-five bucks and a tow.

Anyway, as Lowry tells it, a bunch of them’d gone to dinner at Don & Charlie’s after losing yet another home game to the Dodgers, a no-decision for Zito in which he’d walked five and allowed three runs. They were just leaving, chewing on their toothpicks and about-to-be-lit cigarettes, when they’d all heard the sickening crunch across the parking lot.

When Tim saw it was his car, he’d broken into a run to get over there and kill whoever it was smashed into his little deuce coupe.

But Tim hadn’t expected whoever it was to pile out of the driver’s seat crying, big whooping kidlike sobs, hurling her half-drunk diet Coke onto the asphalt and mumbling something about her glasses.

Blonde hair everywhere, yeah, but she didn’t look like a groupie, not with that tearful face as wrinkly and red as a new baby’s.

When Tim’d put his arm around her, trying to calm her down, and she’d grabbed some of his shirt in her hand and sobbed louder, the guys’d just walked away, shaking their heads, because everybody knows there’s no coming back from that.

//

No one’d been more more surprised than Tim, by the fender-bender itself or by what happened afterwards.

When he got close enough to inspect the damage, he felt like he’d been punched. The back panel was wrinkled up into a sneer, both lights were busted and dangling red and yellow plastic fragments, and there were sticky-looking black sideswipes across the bumper and the wheel well.

When the girl’d finally stopped crying - he’d shushed her gently, found her a couple of kleenexes - they’d agreed to trade information. She’d been leaning into the passenger seat for the longest time, rummaging in the glove compartment for her insurance card, before it finally dawned on Tim that there _was_ no card.  Things weren’t adding up.  She hadn't even glanced at his license, and the one she'd given him said New Jersey.  And she looked even younger than him, especially with her glasses on.

\- Look, she’d said finally, turning to him, the tip of her nose unglamorously red and the wet, mascara-smeared kleenexes wadded in her fist, - I’ll level with you, I never got around to insurance. It’s not even my car, it’s my sister’s, she’s in Tucson.

He’d stared at her. _Fuck. Tell me this isn’t happening._

She’d taken a big sniff and stood up a little straighter, suddenly looking almost disdainful. - But I’m not gonna stiff you, she'd said, - so don’t worry.

\- I think we should just skip the insurance thing, she’d continued, - all they’re gonna do is raise your premiums anyway? I got enough cash to cover it, she’d said - a couple thousand bucks? Not here. At home.

He’d sighed, shaking his head in disbelief.

But then she’d flashed him this wry apologetic smile that made him feel like he was fourteen again, except that no girl had ever smiled at him like that when he was fourteen. The smile made him realize that she was more than cute, she was pretty, and the way she rubbed her eyes with her knuckles showed she wasn’t stuck-up about herself. Her eyes were blue, he’d noticed, and the spaces between her teeth made her look like she was still a growing girl.

The deal was sealed when he’d realized she didn’t know who he was.

//

She isn’t very organized, this girl, he thinks, as she’s rooting around in her oversized bag for ages before she brings up a big ring of keys and spears one into the deadbolt lock.

Her apartment’s dark and stuffy and she gropes around for the light-switch. She hasn’t stopped talking since they pulled out of the parking lot at Don & Charlie’s, so he now knows she’s from Plainfield, New Jersey, but actually from the greater Philly area _originally_ before she went and got her degree in hotel management with _honors_ from Rutgers, in New Brunswick, and she’s out here now in the Sunbelt job-hunting, cause let’s face it, New Jersey’snot exactly the hospitality capital of the world.

When she goes over to the chest of drawers, leaving him standing at the door of this motel-room-sized studio, he’s astonished to see her reach in and pull out a two-pound Folgers can. She peels off the clear plastic top and extracts a thick roll of cash. Stretching the bills in her left hand and stroking them flat with the thumb of her right, she counts some off, her lips moving in concentration.

_\- Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty._

At first he thinks they're tens or maybe twenties. Only later, when she re-counts the pile one last time just to be sure, does he realize that they're _hundreds._

\- There’s banks, you know, for stuff like that, money, says Tim, watching her, his eyes huge.

\- I know, she says, snapping the counted bills together like a croupier with a deck of cards - but I don’t trust ‘em.

She holds out the stack and Tim stares at it.

\- I’m a libertarian, you should know that, she says. - You should rethink it if you’re using ‘em.   _Banks,_ she explains in response to his quizzical expression - they ‘re not safe, that FDIC insurance thing is bullshit, and they’re parasites, they overcharge. They should be paying me! Thirty bucks a month for checking, and they’re getting the interest? Two bucks a pop at the ATM? To get my own money? _I don’t think so._

He takes the money from her and wedges it into his wallet, which bulges like the open mouth of a fish.

\- Hey, Megan, Tim begins carefully. He looks up; it’s hard to meet those wide blue eyes; it’s like she’s an oncoming car with blinding brights.

\- I don’t really know how to say this, he says slowly, - don’t take it wrong. But maybe you shouldn’t be bringing strange guys into your apartment and showing ‘em all that money in the coffee-can. They might take advantage. I mean, I wouldn’t, but a lot of guys would. Just sayin.’

Her face changes, her mouth scrunching up towards her nose, and she takes off her glasses and folds them into her fist. At first Tim thinks he’s offended her, but when her breath starts coming in snatches, he realizes she’s holding back from crying. The tip of her nose is turning red again, and she tilts her chin upward, blinking back tears.

He gives her time.

\- I know, she says finally, bringing her eyes level with his again, - but here’s the thing: I’m all about personal responsibility. I’m trying to get my own business off the ground, she says, - so I got an all-cash economy. I don’t do credit cards. I don’t even do checks. That way I always know where I’m at, she says, swallowing.

Her breathing’s steadier now, and her eyes flicker up and meet his.

\- So are we square? I think that should cover it, she says.

 _\- Three thousand bucks,_ says Tim slowly, - yeah, I think so.

Now they’re standing there looking at each other, and she puts out her hand.

\- Shake on it, she says, and she takes his hand in hers. It’s warm and surprisingly strong. She gives his hand a single firm shake and then lets it drop.

//

In her car, as they’re driving back to Don & Charlie’s, the silence stretches a little, and Tim’s mind drifts back to his banged-up fender and when he’s gonna find time to get estimates, repairs, all that shit. He sighs.

Her voice brings him back.

\- I been meaning to ask you your name? she says.

It’s nine-thirty and they’re mired in traffic at one of the every-two-blocks stoplights on Indian School Road.

\- Tim, he says, nearly swallowing the syllable.

\- So what’re you doing in Phoenix, Tim? she asks, straight-arming the steering wheel as though she’s stretching. Her arms are freckled and wiry like an athete’s. - Your plates are California, she adds.

\- Yeah, well, I work for a baseball team, says Tim, - the Giants. San Francisco. You heard of ‘em? It’s spring training.

 _\- Omigod_ , she says, twisting in her seatbelt to face him till the light changes and she has to hit the gas, - You work for the _Giants?_ That’s gotta be amazing.

There’s a pause.

\- Yeah, it is, says Tim.

\- This is a kinda stupid question, Megan says, suddenly animated, - but have you ever met Barry Zito?

Tim nods. - Yeah, he says, - couple times.

\- Oh, man, he’s _totally_ my idol, she says in a rush. - I been following him since he was in Oakland - Mulder and Huddy and Zito. I used to go see ‘em when they were all still playing for the A’s, at Muni. They were so great, those guys, it was such a fucking shame to break ‘em up.

\- It’s so weird that you happen to work there, she goes on, - cause I was just at the Giants game today, that’s why I was at Don and Charlie’s. Scottsdale Stadium kicks butt over Muni, by the way. There’s some good shady places on the grass that’re cheaper than the bleachers. I been trying to get over there a couple times already this spring - I figured out when Barry’s pitching. But only if I don’t have an interview or something, she adds.

\- Yeah, well, says Tim, - it wasn’t much of a game today. Hope you weren’t too disappointed.

\- This is gonna sound weird, says Megan, - I know you’re gonna think I’m not a very serious fan, but I don’t really care that much who wins. The thing is, I just like to watch Barry pitch. There’s something about him, he’s kind of mysterious, I guess. You know what I mean?

\- Yeah, says Tim. - I do.

\- So what exactly do you do for the Giants?

\- I’m on the infield crew, says Tim.

\- So you’ve met Barry out there? You must know all the pitchers?

\- Pretty much, says Tim. - They’re around when I’m working.

\- Wow, she says. - That is _so_ cool. She’s beaming, shaking her head.

And then her bumper’s scraping the gutter at the entryway to Don and Charlie’s, and his hand’s already on the door-handle. After she drops him back at his car, as she’s peeling out of the parking lot, he sees her wave through the passenger window.

Back in his car, _finally,_ he lets out a deep breath. Then he opens his wallet and counts the bills to make sure it’s all there.

But halfway through he stops. Partly because he’s pretty confident, after all this, that she wouldn’t cheat him. And partly because he’s found the business card she tucked into the middle of the stack, her phone number scrawled on it in spiky green script.

//

It’d taken Zito a long time to shake what’d happened with Haren.

After the game, he’d met up with Gio and Richie at the Taker to shoot some eight-ball - he wasn’t up for facing his Giants teammates. Then he’d driven back up the hill to his house and spent a long time standing in front of the big windows, hands on his hips, till he got tired of waiting for that one star that’s supposed to show up first.

He’d threaded his way through the dark living room and into the kitchen, where he’d done a shot of Sauza and a Negro Modelo chaser to quiet the throb behind his eyes. Then he’d driven back down the hill to the place off East Camelback where the married guys rent places for spring training.

//

Zito’s stiff and achy from missing too many workouts, so when he stops at the apartment complex’s security gate, he’s tempted to get out of the car for a little stretch and maybe some small talk with the guard. But when he catches sight of himself in the rearview mirror, he realizes he hasn’t changed his clothes for a couple days, his hair’s matted, and he hasn’t shaved in a week. And he’s still sweating tequila and Mexican beer.

He rolls down the window instead.

\- Name? says the guard.

\- Zito with a ‘Z’, says Barry, his own name sounding awkward to him.

The guard punches something into his computer keyboard and studies the screen. - With a Z? says the guard. - You sure? Ain't nobody named that here.

Zito smiles and shakes his head. - Sorry, he says, - Thought you wanted _my_ name. I’m here for Tim Lincecum.

\- Get in line, says the guard, grinning, - you’re the fifth one tonight. That dude’s popular. Oh, I know you, he says, leaning forward and squinting for a better look. Then he shakes his head, still smiling.  - You that lefty from Oakland!  I seen you pitch.

He presses the button that springs the gate.

//

It’s past eleven. Tim’s been doing a marathon of _Rockford Files_ reruns, and he’s thinking when he retires from baseball, he’ll get himself a beach trailer in Malibu and chase guys down the PCH in a big Chevy boat just like Jimbo. When the doorbell rings he groans - he’s tired, and it’s probably not even for him, the pizza-delivery guys always get the numbers wrong.

He’s not expecting Zito.

Who looks like a fugitive, is Tim’s first thought when he opens the door. Or a hockey player who takes his bloody mouthguard out and finds his teeth stuck in it. Or something, but he can’t think what, because the wrecked lines of Zito’s face and the way his hands can’t stop moving have stopped Tim in his tracks.

\- _What the fuck?_ says Tim. - Are you OK?

Zito, who’s never at a loss for words, just stands there in the entryway, swaying a little.

Tim slips his arm around Zito, and walks him slowly over to the couch. Zito’s heavy on his feet, his skin hot like he’s got a fever, and he smells like old sweat and booze and something Tim can’t put his finger on, something different.

As they’re sitting there at opposite ends of the couch, Zito staring blankly into the middle distance, Tim counts back and realizes it’s been two and a half weeks since they’ve been alone in the same room.

Suddenly a formal feeling freezes him, that feeling he’d had trouble losing last fall, when every time he’d seen Zito seemed like the first, and he’d wondered if he’d only imagined what had come before.

\- Can I use your shower?

It’s the first thing Zito’s said.

\- Yeah, of course, says Tim. - Of course you can.

Zito’s still pretty unsteady - when he rises from the couch, he lurches forward a little as though he might go straight over - so Tim walks him into the bathroom and flips the water on, checking it with his hand. Then he goes out into the hallway to snag a couple towels from the closet.

When Tim comes back with the towels, Zito’s frame is a blur through the opaque shower door, his hands in his hair, slumped against the back wall. A few drops of water trickle out of the sill, where the rubber gasket’s worn crooked.

For a second, Tim wonders what he’s doing, as he slips off his t-shirt and shimmies out of his jeans, but the hiss of the water and the way the bathroom’s already clouded with steam settles him, it’s so familiar, so utterly part of the known world.

Zito’s still leaning against the back wall, and he doesn’t open his eyes when Tim cracks open the door and slides in. Tim can’t tell whether Zito’s surprised or alarmed or too far gone to know. It doesn’t matter, though, when Zito’s arms slip around him, warm and strong and already brown from the intense Arizona sunlight.

For a long time they’re just standing there in the fall of water, wordless.  It feels good.  Way good.

Luxuriating in the way the soft water is pounding the back of his neck, his shoulders, Tim thinks about the questions he’s wanted to ask Zito since that day he saw Haren at the gate. All the possible answers, and where a conversation like that’d be likely to go.

ZIto seems to know, because just at this point his hand slides up and onto Tim’s jaw, where to Tim it feels strange and familiar at the same time, the curious mark on Zito’s wrist flashing below his thumb. And then Tim’s waiting, poised there between demanding and refusing - and he opens his eyes to meet Zito’s.

The way Zito closes his eyes and leans in gently, slowly, to touch his lips to Tim’s takes Tim back, all the way back, to the loves he’d discovered in spite of himself, the things he knows were meant to happen.

\- Why is it - says Tim,

 _\- Don’t,_ says Zito, cutting him off. - You know why I’m here.

The way he's kissing Tim now, that fever in the mouth that Tim sensed on his skin, pushes them across the borders of silence.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> With special thanks to soupypictures, from whom I stole the title (from her wonderful piece of the same name posted here on AO3) and because I couldn't help thinking about her political views when I was creating Megan.


End file.
